


Introduction to Networking and Efficient Role Management

by Palgrave (goldenrod)



Category: Community
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Introspection, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenrod/pseuds/Palgrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: The Secret Origins of the Study Group. Because a study group doesn't just form by accident, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abed

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a series of drabbles. DRABBLES, PEOPLE. Clearly, my muse does _not_ know when to shut up.
> 
> Set during the pilot episode. There is a bit of shipping, but no more than what was in the series proper in Season 1 (except for a hint of Jeff/Annie towards the end). Feedback and constructive criticism welcome and greatly appreciated as always; hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Abed joined the study group.

The role of campus oddball is a bit more challenging at Greendale than Abed Nadir presumes it would be at other schools, given the competition. As a result, he’s had to compensate and make his character a bit more extreme than normal; he’s had to exaggerate the various symptoms from the tests his parents ran him through a child (the results were always inconclusive, granted, but a big part of forming a memorable character is verisimilitude). But he’s pretty sure he’s got it nailed. 

He’s already pegged Jeffrey Winger as the lead character, and Britta Perry as the love interest, and made sure to seek them both out and introduce himself, make sure he gets his scene in this week’s episode. It’s the role he was made for, really; he’s pretty sure he’s the oddball extra who gets a few scenes and a line of speaking dialogue every couple of episodes, maybe even ramped up to a recurring character part a few seasons in. Not ideal, but then again, he’s not exactly lead-man material.

He’s in the cafeteria, sitting alone at a table and mentally sketching out potential routines -- the space in here would be perfect for a food fight; it’s a bit _Animal House_ , but you have to do the college classics at _some_ point -- when Britta slides into seat opposite him. Abed’s a bit surprised, because he hasn’t had time to prepare, and he’s already had his one scene with her today, but improvisation is a skill, after all.

“Hey, Abed. I’m Britta, from Spanish. You remember me, right?”

“Sure do. You’re sorry if you seem cold.”

“... I did say that, yes. Hey, you mind doing me a favour?” She nods over to someone at the other side of the room. “See that guy? From our Spanish class?”

Abed turns. Jeff Winger is looking into the reflective surface of the ice-cream machine, frowning and adjusting his hair. Evidently he’s missed the Meet Cute scene. “Jeff Winger. He sees my value now,” he adds helpfully.

“That’s... great, Abed. Anyway, listen, he says he’s a board-certified tutor, and has a Spanish study group. You hear anything about it?”

“No.”

“No,” Britta repeats triumphantly, as if she’s made some kind of deduction. Abed’s not sure what the link is, but then, he’s kind of not sure about Britta, period. He’s already cast her as the closer-to-earth love interest, and she is on first glance, but there’s the potential there for zany hijinks which isn’t quite fitting for the character. She doesn’t fit into the mould as well as she should. It’s unsettling. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? You’d think he’d advertise it or something.” 

“I guess.”

“Well anyway, I’m meeting him in the library in an hour. But I think he’s just trying to get into my pants.” 

“Well, it’s not surprising. You _are_ his Manic Pixie Dream Girl, after all. His study group’s probably part of the Xanatos Gambit he’s got going.”

Britta stares at him with her eyes narrowed and her mouth open for a few, bewildered seconds.

“... Okay. But anyway, you wanna come along?”

Abed blinks. This is unexpected.

“Me?”

Britta grins. “Yeah. He says it’s a study group; study group should have more than two members, after all. What d’you say?”

If the premise revolves around Jeff and Britta being in a study group, then that means more than one regular character. Means ensemble piece, to a degree at least. It’s certainly a promotion. He’s still likely be the oddball outcast, but an oddball outcast who’s one of the main characters from the start, not having to work his way up, is an improvement. He might have to tone down his character, have to make sure it doesn’t get too annoying on a regular basis -- it was okay for an infrequent recurring character, but it might grate for a series regular -- but since he was pretty sure this was the pilot there’s room for improvement anyway.

If it is an ensemble piece, however, it also requires the right combination of characters to ensure an entertaining dynamic. And he’s not sure he fully trusts Britta to know what to look for.

“Have you cast the other roles, yet?”

Britta blinks, hard. “I... haven’t asked anyone else, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” He nods. “I’m in. Don’t worry about the others; leave that to me.”

Britta beams, and scribbles something on a page torn from her notebook. “Great. Here’s the details he gave me. See you there in about an hour? And, yeah, you know, ask a few other people,” she waves her hand vaguely, “see how he copes when he’s got an audience.”

Abed nods, and memorizes the details with a glance as Britta hurries off. He tears a page from his notebook, begins to divide it into quarters, and jots down the meeting details separately on each one. As he does so, he runs through the other members of their shared Spanish class in his mind, already deciding the necessary roles and selecting possible candidates with the most dramatic and entertainment potential. Granted, he knows little about any of them except for their brief introductions and contributions in class earlier , which was not the best audition they could have hoped for (although the teacher certainly had potential as a recurring nemesis), but he managed to gleam enough from that plus his independent observations to gain a rough sense of who would be most fitting for what role.

He looks down at four pieces of paper, the details neatly imprinted on each  Now, this would work better in a dramatic sense if he had business cards, or even better, ornately printed letters sealed in expensive envelopes which he could deliver anonymously to them, creating a sense of mystery as they independently discovered each letter and made their way to the study room, their curiosity peaked by the mysterious summoning and the adventures it promised. But he doesn’t have the time, or the funds, and so the direct approach will have to do.

He’s in charge of casting. And he knows just what and who to look for.


	2. Troy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Troy joined the study group.

Man, college _blows_ so far.

You know how many people have noticed Troy Barnes’ awesome jacket? Have come up to him begging to know what the huge letter ‘R’ on it stood for? And then stood and listened in awe as he explains about the sheer unfathomable awesomeness that was his athletics career? And then, if female and super-hot, fluttered their eyes at him and begged him to take them aside and do super, super sexy things to them (butt-stuff optional but preferred)?

Precisely none. _That’s_ how many.

Troy is almost starting to think that no one cares about high school sporting stars and their complete awesomeness at college. Which is just, like, _mathematically_ ridiculous. After all, everyone here is just from school like him, right? And he’s exactly as awesome as he was at school, right? Which is, like, _astronomically_ awesome. So logically, it should be just like high school, right? Except college, so even more awesome.

Troy’s willing to admit it; he’s getting confused. Which he _doesn’t_ like. Confusion means thinking, and thinking and Troy? Not Cool. And Troy has made it a policy to never do anything Not Cool.

_Like the Spider-Man pajamas?_ a treasonous little voice at the back of his head whispers.

Troy stops dead. Oh, you did _not_ go there, treasonous little voice at the back of my head.

_You bet I did, Troy. And there’s more besides. The video games? The Batman comics? The boxset of_ Kickpuncher _?_

__That’s _enough_ , treasonous little voice at the back of my head.

 _What about the signed poster of the cast of_ Firefly _, most egregiously and unfairly cancelled TV series in the history of television? If_ only _you have a friend close enough and real enough to enter into some kind of fake-suicide pact to see it restored to the screen_...

“Shut up, treasonous little voice at the back of my head!” Troy howls. Then realizes he’s just screamed this out loud, to himself, in the middle of the quad, with everyone suddenly staring at him, and he scurries away in embarrassment, practically running through the first door he finds.

That stuff? Is Not Cool. And Troy? Is Cool. Which means he has to ignore the Not Cool stuff, no matter how much he loves it and how much it pains him to do it and how much he wishes he had a best friend in the world to share it with.

See? This is what happens when Troy thinks. Not Cool stuff. He needs to restore his mojo, get his Cool flowing again, and -- ah-ha.

Just the thing.

Troy recognizes the guy in the corridor he’s found himself sharing from his Spanish class. He was kind of weird, actually, but he needs someone to ‘help’ him with his Spanish homework, and this guy looks dorky enough to fit the bill. Then, Troy can get back to maintaining his Cool and not have to worry about things like comics and _Firefly_ posters.

He struts up, throws an arm around the guy’s shoulder, and practically forces him down the corridor. “Hey, buddy.”

The guy is looking at his hand on his shoulder with a frown on his face, like he’s never seen a hand on his shoulder before. It’s not quite the look of awe-filled gratitude screaming ‘thank you for speaking to me and validating my otherwise geek-ridden and uncool existence, Mr. Football Superstar Troy!’ that Troy was hoping for, but he’ll take what he can get. 

“It’s Alfred, right?” Troy continues.

“Abed,” the guy corrects.

“Whatever. Listen, you remember me from Spanish, right?”

Recognition dawns. “You were trying to lounge back in your seat while at the same time making sure everyone saw the letter on the back of your jacket. Frankly, it looked kind of uncomfortable.”

Troy forces a grin and an explosion of laughter, shakes Abed’s shoulder a bit. “That’s funny. You’re a funny guy.”

Abed stops walking, frowns at him. “You’re the first person who’s ever said to me.”

“Yeah, I bet that, buddy.”

“No, I mean _literally_ the first. That’s kind of significant. This could be -- and I’m aware that I’m quoting Humphrey Bogart’s speech to Claude Rains at the end of _Casablanca_ and all that implies here, which should technically come at the _end_ but it’s otherwise fitting -- the beginning of a beautiful friendship. If that _is_ the case, however, I’d prefer it if we were to take this to an aerodrome in Nazi-occupied North Africa, I was wearing a fedora and trench-coat and you were dressed as a Vichy French police chief.”

“Um... yeah. Anyway, ‘cause I like you so much, I’m gonna let you do a favour for me.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, see, I got this thing about Spanish homework. Specifically, I do not _do_ Spanish homework.” Troy turns, grins at Abed. “That’s where you come in.”

“Gonna have to stop you there, actually,” Abed says. “Languages, unfortunately, are not my bag. Making me do your homework is ultimately going to backfire for you in a hilarious comedy of errors involving amusingly inaccurate translations which, while that’s a plot I can certainly get behind, unfortunately does not have enough substance for my current purposes.”

Troy stops, removes his arm like it’s been dipped in acid. Seriously, he just spent all this time buttering up some dork for _nothing_? And he’s just saying _no_ , like he’s not in complete awe of Troy? Seriously, does he not _see_ the jacket? And what the hell _is_ a Vichy French, anyway?

“However,” Abed continues, “while I myself cannot help you here, I do know of someone who _can_.” He produces a piece of paper from his pocket. “Jeff Winger. I’m told he’s a board-certified Spanish tutor. He’s holding a study group in the library this afternoon. I’m sure he’d be happy to do it for you.”

Troy takes the sheet of paper. On the one hand, someone else to do his homework. On the other, ‘study group’ sounds like it means ‘hanging out with dorks group’, which sounds distinctly Not Cool. On the other other hand... how many hands does this thing have again?

“You gonna be there?”

“Yep. I’m sort of the ‘zany oddball’ member of the group for now. But it’s early days, I’m sure there’s room for character development.”

Hmmm. Okay. Study group means hanging around with _this_ guy also. That will definitely have a bit of a drag on his Cool factor; he might have to wear the jacket a few days a week to compensate.

“... Right. And this Winger guy’s good?”

“I don’t know, but he has excellent hair.”

That settles it. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll be there.”

“Cool.” Abed begins to hurry off, but before he can get very far stops, turns, studies Troy closely.

“Have you ever considered starring in a _Kickpuncher_ fan video?”

Troy suddenly feels his heart stop a beat and his eyes go wide. Every night, he has. Every night since he first saw _Kickpuncher 5: Electric Punchaloo_ he’s dreamed of wearing that armour, and saying those immortal words: _“I kick you up, you go down.”_

“No,” he finally blurts out, his voice high and strangled. “I haven’t dreamt about that all my life. That’s insane.”

“You should,” Abed replies, before disappearing down the corridor, “I bet you’d be awesome.”

Troy hangs in the corridor for a moment, wondering whether he’s just met the dork of his dreams or whether Abed’s just an undercover Cool guy testing him.

Yeah. That must be it.

 

*

 

And the jock is in place, Abed thinks.

One down.


	3. Annie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Annie joined the study group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just sos you know, a minor example of bad language in this chapter, and implied drug use.

The Greendale Community College ladies rooms are not exactly the best place for self-improvement -- or, for that matter, any of the kinds of business that one might require a ladies room for -- but like so many things in her life at this point, Annie Edison is not exactly spoiled for choice. So, as she washes her hands, she looks right at her reflection, right into her own eyes, and thinks to herself: this year, Annie. This year, things are gonna be _different_.

Now, technically, as every book, website and RSS feed that Annie has consulted on the subject of vocalized self-motivation has pointed out, such sentiments should be expressed out loud. But, to be honest, Annie does not exactly feel comfortable practicing her motivational techniques in a room where it is apparently less hygienic to wash one’s hands in the sinks than to just conclude your business without doing so or where standing too close to the walls apparently risks some kind of viral infection, or where there is an unsettling stain on the _ceiling_ of all places (and _geez_ , seriously, the person who put it there must have been determined to do so for reasons and motives Annie does not even want to _begin_ to think about). Or where the other occupant of the room, a short goth with bloodshot eyes and more tattoos than Annie has ever seen before has been washing her hands for five minutes straight (exactly as long as Annie has been in the bathroom -- _no_ , she does _not_ keep time, but for your _information_ while we’re on the subject, in these days of poor diet and health management swift and efficient movements are _nothing_ to be ashamed of), while muttering to herself and sniffing uncontrollably.

Annie gets the feeling the other woman is waiting impatiently for her to leave. She gets this feeling from the impatient looks the other woman sends her every couple of seconds, and from the hungry, desperate _just fucking_ leave _already_ look in her eyes when Annie accidentally meets them in the mirror.

Annie recognizes that look, that hunger, from other times she’s looked in the mirror over the past year. She’s been there before, although she doubts very much it’s because of Adderall in this woman’s case.

“What?!” the woman snaps, her voice high and angry.

“Nothing,” Annie replies.

“Fucking bitch,” the other woman mutters. Annie huffs indignantly, turns off the faucet and sweeps out without bothering to dry her hands; not exactly good hygiene practice, but since the dryer is hanging off the wall by a wire and she wouldn’t touch a towel in this room if you paid her, nothing for it. The other woman doesn’t even wait for her to be out of the door before rummaging in her pockets for a tiny baggie filled with an off-white powder that Annie has _no_ interest in the contents of, thank you very much.

Once out the ladies room, Annie lingers in the corridor for a moment, trying to subtly wipe her hands on her skirt without anyone noticing. She takes in the dim, bleak beige walls, covered in bright posters vainly trying to inspire and motivate the student body to excel and achieve and inspire despite the painfully copious amounts of evidence working against them. Takes in the people walking around her, the depressed faces, the losers and the freaks and the failures.

Of whom, Annie now counts herself as one.

But not for much longer, missy. She’s been _there_ before, but she’s not going back there. And she’s certainly not staying _here_.

Annie begins to walk down the corridor, her mind already clocking on the next thing on her schedule, already scanning through her memory for things to fill the empty period she currently faces with, ways to improve her transcript and record, ways to shorten the length of time she has to be at Greendale before moving on to the brighter and better future that awaits her once she has managed to overcome this temporary setback. 

Annie has made mistakes, yes, mistakes that have robbed her of her rightful place in the centre of one of this country’s glittering monuments to academic achievement and excellence (not to mention her self-respect and dignity, her few friends, her parent’s respect and love, her ability to go through life honestly claiming to not be a drug addict and even her virginity, for pete’s sake), and have left her marooned in Greendale. But after everything else she’s overcome, Greendale is a minor stumbling block, something easily overcome. 

And no matter what, she’s a college girl now. It’s not like high school, with the bitchy cliques and mocking laughter and disapproving parents and foggy robot-themed paranoid drug highs. This time, it’s different. This time, Annie Edison is _in_. She’s cool. She’s in control. She can forge her own destiny, find people worthy of her and her skills and forge a new life.

She can beat this. And once she has, she’s gonna spread her wings and sour away from Greendale and never look back and not miss a single thing.

This year, Annie Edison, things are gonna be different.

Annie turns a corner, and stops dead when she sees _him_ , as handsome and tall as he ever was, still wearing that letterman jacket that on anyone else would immediately signify painful, painful memories but on him just looks... good. He’s talking to another boy, someone she vaguely recognizes from their Spanish class. Her breath hitches, and she immediately puts her hand to her neck, unconsciously twisting the fabric of her cardigan in her first.

Well, she might miss _one_ thing about Greendale. She’s allowed _one_ thing.

But not necessarily. Troy could come with her. Oh, sure, back in high school, he had cheerleaders and jocks and keg parties and popularity to distract him, so he never noticed the one person who truly loved him for him sitting behind him in algebra class. But college is different. College is where she excels, college is where Annie Edison finally gets to shine. He’ll definitely have to notice her here, and when he does, and sees what’s been waiting for him all this time...

Troy and the other boy end their conversation, and she has a moment of thrill when he lingers in the corridor, only for the familiar dull edge of disappointment to sink in when Troy turns and walks the other way without noticing her. The other boy is walking towards her, however, and she suddenly worries that he’s noticed her watching them. She runs his face through her memory, placing it with a name (and hah! how many cheerleaders thought themselves instant facial-name placement, huh?) immediately.

“Hi Abed!” she chirrups happily. Just because she’s not going to be with these people long is no reason not to be nice, after all.

Abed looks at her with that same neutral, expressionless frown he wore in class. “Oh, hi --”

“Annie,” she cuts in, before he has a chance to demonstrate he’s forgotten her name, “Annie Edison. We were sitting in the same row in Spanish class. I was right at the front. Wearing the yellow cardigan. The teacher yelled at me for taking notes.”

“I remember, yeah,” Abed replies, still with that flat, neutral tone. It makes Annie slightly nervous, so she continues rambling.

“Truth be told, I’m not really very good with languages. But they look really good on transcripts, especially Spanish. It should help when I transfer out later in the year. I’m not supposed to be here, you know. Not that I’m better than this place, you understand, but I had a really good grade point average and a shot at a scholarship to the school of my choice until I had a nervous breakdown and ran through a window screaming about robots.” Too much information, Annie. But Abed just keeps listening politely, with that same blank yet somehow laser-intense expression, so she just keeps right on going. “So that’s why I’m here. But not for long, I hope! So, what are you doing?” she asks, eager to bail out of this conversation as soon as possible.

“I’m looking for people to join a study group,”

A chill washes over Annie, and she feels the prickling of icy needles right in the gut. Her breath catches in her throat.

“A study group?” she asks faintly.

“Yeah, for Spanish.” Abed continues, apparently not noticing her reaction. “One of the guys in the class is apparently a board-certified tutor. Jeff Winger. He’s putting a study group together.”

First thing Annie did in all her classes was pass around a sheet of paper introducing herself and asking if anyone wanted to join a study group together. And _absolutely no one replied_. And now this... guy is stealing her idea? And isn’t even asking _her?_ She had to find out by _accident?_

Exclusion. Everyone else gets to join, but not her. She feels like she’s staring down the same long, twisty, dark path she thought she’d gotten through, like she’s thought she’s been walking away from but has just been stepping down the same long, painful, bitter road that leads to misery and and despair and robot breakdowns. 

Annie feels her lower lip wobble and warm tears prickling in her eyes. Nothing’s changed. It’s high school all over again. She just wants the ground to swallow her up and everyone to ignore her, for Abed to just go to his precious study group and leave her alone.

“You want to come along?” Abed continues, holding up a piece of paper. His tone is still flat and neutral, and Annie has no idea whether he’s just asking now because he’s noticed she’s upset and is offering out of pity, or whether he was intending to ask her all along. But based on past experience, she can guess. And she almost tells him to take his pity and stick it up his you-know-what when something suddenly flares inside Annie, something angry. No. She’s not going to be excluded again. Greendale or not, this is college, darn it, this is Annie Edison's turn to shine, and she will _not_ be cast aside. She’s going to go to this study group, and she’s going to show this Jeff Winger guy why you do _not_ steal Annie Edison’s idea and then try and cut her out.

She snatches the piece of paper from Abed’s hand -- he barely reacts, although his frown does deepen slightly in what might be surprise -- and grinds out a “Thank you,” before spinning on her heel and stalking away from him. Her heels click angrily on the polished floor as she nearly sprints as fast as she can to the library, mentally restructuring and reorganising her schedule to incorporate a Spanish study group. 

They’re gonna try and exclude her again? Well, fine. But they haven’t met the new and improved Annie Edison. She’s gonna go and read up on as much of the material for the Spanish class as she can cram in her head. And then, she is going to that study group and she is going to shove it right in the faces of everyone who thought they’d try and cut her out. And maybe then she'll shove it right up Jeff Winger’s butt, if that’s not too gross an image (which it kind of is, but she's angry, darn it).

She'll show them. This year’s gonna be _different_.

 

*

 

Well... okay. Abed hadn't quite anticipated _that_ reaction.

But still. The 'nerdy but beautiful-all-along' role has been cast. Two down, two left.


	4. Shirley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Shirley joined the study group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more naughty language in this chapter. Also, I'll be honest with you; Shirley's probably the character I feel least comfortable writing with, so...

The Lord is testing me, Shirley Bennett decides. 

But she shall persevere. If His one and only Son could withstand forty days and forty nights in the desert under the temptations of the Lord of Hell, and could sacrifice Himself on the cross for our sins, then surely Shirley shall be able to withstand the challenges that Greendale Community College can throw at her? Yea, like him, she shall walk through the valley of shadows and fear no evil. 

(Well, she shall walk through the quad and not fear the weird little sexually-ambiguous Dean of this place, anyway.)

However, should she happen to come across any of the members of her previous study group, then Lord help her, she might not be able to withstand the challenges of this place without tearing those hypocritical little bitches in half from head to butt and impaling them on spikes as a warning to her enemies. You do _not_ kick Shirley Bennett out of your pissy little Intro to Business Ethics study group and expect no retribution. Nuh-uh.

In the spirit of Christian generosity, Shirley is willing to concede that her current feud with them is not entirely their fault. After all, they certainly cannot help being judgmental, hypocritical and all-round Godless witches who cannot take a bit of helpful advice and friendly criticism. And as much as they might not like to hear it, Chantelle Earnshaw and Liz Percival certainly cannot help their violent and aggressive reactions upon being told the truth that they respectively have a huge, fat ass and dress like a common harlot respectively.

Shirley sighs, and slumps onto a park bench at the edge of the quad. She clutches her bag to her chest and watches the people walk past her. They all seem happier and younger than she is.

No, it is not entirely their fault. It is hers, and the sinfulness within her. The sinfulness that drives her to gossip and ruin potential friendships. The sinfulness that drove her to drink in excess, and that drove her husband into the arms of some nasty little stripper with an artificial bosom. Oh, Lord, she wants to change, wants to conquer the darkness within her and wants to ignore the voice of Satan whispering his temptations in her ear, but it’s so very hard. And it’s even harder, now she’s alone in this cold world and on this even colder community college bench.

Perhaps she made the wrong choice to come here, leaving her babies at home alone -- well, at school until three, and then with Megan, the nice fifteen-year-old with braces from down the street until seven -- while she goes against everything she’s ever known and tries to forge herself a new and unknown place in the world. Perhaps she should go back to what she knows, focus on rebuilding her home up from a foundation of stone instead of sand rather than going further down this strange, new path.

“Lord,” she mutters quietly, “just you give me a sign and I’ll follow it.”

“Shirley.”

She blinks, and looks around. Could this be an angel, sent by the Lord himself to bring guidance?

“It’s Shirley, right? Remember me? From Spanish class?”

Oh. It is not an angel sent from the Lord. It is, Shirley is slightly disappointed to realize, that nice but slightly strange young man who was sitting a few rows behind her in her Spanish class. Unless he is an angel having taken human form, which Shirley, frankly, has to doubt. But, nevertheless, she can’t exactly pick and choose her company at the moment, so she puts on her biggest smile and her sweetest voice.

“Oh, _hello_! It’s, um, Ay-bed, right?”

“Abed, actually.” The young man corrects her, but there’s no sign of any offense having been taken. This is, to be fair, because there is barely any sign of emotion on his face whatsoever. “May I sit?”

“Oh, please do!”

He does so. There’s a few moments of awkward silence.

“You’re sitting here alone,” Abed notes, matter-of-factly.

He does, at least, have a firm grasp of the obvious. “Um, yes, I was. I was just, um, thinking.”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you -- frankly, it makes a good contemplative shot -- but actually, I was looking for you.”

“Oh, that’s _nice_!” Shirley gushes eagerly, before realizing a moment later that, since she doesn’t know _why_ he was looking for her, it might _not_ be. “Um, why, exactly?”

“Well, I remembered that you had trouble with the introductory Spanish phrases the teacher passed around in class.”

Shirley’s face darkens. Yes, she _did_ have trouble. And the teacher did _not_ make her feel very comfortable about it. In fact, she’d decided the instant he started laughing that although she did not know Senor Chang very well, as sure as she was sitting here the day would come when she would watch from Heaven as that weird, nasty little man burned in the fires of Hell, and she would _laugh her ass off_.

“Anyway, a few of us are putting together a study group for Spanish, and I was wondering if you’d like to join.”

The mere mention of ‘study group’ brings to mind the ugly confrontation with her previous, short-lived study group only minutes before, and Shirley clutches her bag to her chest a bit tighter. “Oh, I don’t _know_...”

“It’s just this afternoon. The guy who’s putting it together is a tutor. Jeff Winger.”

The name is familiar; Shirley’s mind conjures up the image of a man who spent most of the class on his phone, precisely groomed hair, and -- when he stood up -- an amazing ass. Frankly, Shirley’s mind lingers on the image of his ass both much longer than she feels comfortable with and not damn long enough, frankly.

“Oh, that’s nice, but I...”

Shirley’s words, moments earlier, echo in her head; _Lord, just you give me a sign and I’ll follow it_. She’s already ruined her chances with one study group; this is a chance at redemption, and thus a chance to follow her dreams, build a new life for herself and, most satisfyingly, cram it up the ass of her unfaithful bastard of a husband and the skanky little bitch he’d ran off with.

“Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Coolcoolcool. Here’s the details.” He shoves a piece of paper at her with the details scribbled on it and stands up. “Just one more part to cast, then. And I’ve got just the person in mind.”

He hurries off, with his awkward, stiff walk, and Shirley watches him go before turning her attention back to the piece of paper he’s given her and the details written on it.

He might not be an angel, this strange young man, but he might save her just the same.

 

*

 

Abed hadn’t been entirely happy about ditching his initial approach, but frankly, when Shirley had implored God to send her a sign about what to do, he just hadn’t been able to resist the dramatic narrative symbolism. 

In any case, now the group has a conscience. Three down, one left.


	5. Pierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Pierce joined the study group.

The weird Arab kid from his Spanish class is coming towards him. Pierce Hawthorne can’t tell if he’s wearing a bomb or not, but he’s still got his moves. Can probably have the little punk on the floor choking on his own broken neck in a handful of seconds (or minutes) if he tries anything. He didn’t take a kung-fu course in the seventies just to meet and bang hot Asian chicks.

Well... he _did_ , but that’s beside the point.

The kid stands in front of him, head cocked, unblinking.

“You look like you need a Spanish study group,” he says calmly.

Pierce scoffs. As if he needs help with _anything_ from _anyone_. “You _wish_ ,  _jolie dame_ , ” he snorts, throwing in a bit of Spanish just to prove how utterly smart and groovy he is, to use the lingo of the times.

“You just called me ‘pretty lady’. In French.”

He did? Christ. It’s the time he met that... ‘lady’ in San Francisco in ’73 all over again.

“Well, what if I meant to? What if you look French _and_ really lady-like? Huh? What if it’s dark and I’ve been drinking? It’s not my fault if you’re deliberately deceiving me as to the real nature of your gender or genitals.”

“I’m not, but that’s beside the point.” The kid reaches into his pocket, pulls out a scrap of paper. “I’m casting for a Spanish study group; we’re meeting in the library. You should come along. I’m sure we’d benefit from the value of your age and wisdom.”

Pierce preens. "That’s more like it." The ‘age’ part he’s not wild about, but he can cope with the ‘wisdom’ bit.

Pierce takes the piece of paper, looks it over. “Wisdom, huh? How do I know this isn’t some kind of trap?”

The kid cocks his head again. “I’m not planning on blowing you up, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he says flatly.

Pierce scoffs again; he actually _was_ , but when it’s phrased like that it almost makes him seem _racist_. “You couldn’t even try before I kick your ass, punk.”

He takes note of the details; library, study room F. What the hell. These kids could use someone like him to steer them right. And he’s pretty sure he can take this kid if necessary. “Why not? I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” The kid begins to hurry down the corridor, head down.

Something suddenly occurs to Pierce.

“Hey, _was_ I being racist just then?” he asks.

“Yes, but whatever,” the kid calls back over his shoulder.

Pierce thinks he’s gonna like this kid. Assuming, of course, that he _isn’t_ a terrorist.

Or a... ‘lady’.

 

* 

 

And we now have our clueless, bumbling old foil with a big ego. All cast. Ready to go, Abed thinks.


	6. Jeff (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Jeff joined the study group (that he didn't even realize he'd created).

Community college should not be this hard.

In fact, thinks Jeff Winger as he makes his way back to the library study room, it's not like it's been _that_ hard. But it shouldn’t be hard at _all_. He shouldn’t even be _working_ at all this. All he wants to do is get Duncan to give him everything he needs for an easy ride, introduce Miss Cute Blonde From Spanish Class to the wonder that is Sex with Jeff Winger, get his degree, and get back to his real life. Easy, all of it. Why, then, are people trying to teach him stuff? And make it difficult for him? Don’t they see that this is what he really, _really_ wants?

Still, all sorted now. Duncan’s reminded of the sheer volume of debt he owes Jeff, not to mention the fact that he’s basically got the spine and moral backbone of an easily-pushed-around four-year-old girl, and Miss Cute Blonde should, in no short time, be begging for Jeff to put her out of her lengthy, previously unknown but now unbearable misery and _finally_ introduce her to his penis. All he needs to do is get rid of that weird Asperger’s kid from their Spanish class and lay on the charm, and bingo, playtime.

“You guys aren’t gonna believe this,” he begins, as he walks into the study room he’d booked for their meeting, “but the rest of the group...”

He stops, pulled up short. While he’s been gone, a study group appears to have spontaneously grown from the chairs around the table. There’s a pissed-off looking young brunette in a green cardigan who’s kind of hot in both a prim schoolmarm-ish way _and_  in a ‘seriously Jeff she’s like eighteen you should be _ashamed_ of yourself’ kind of way, a housewife-type lady who looks like she’s just about to explode with syrupy sweetness, some old geezer and a kid in a football jacket.

Jeff does not remember inviting any of these people. In fact, he doesn't remember inviting anyone at all. In fact, he doesn't even remember having a study group at all. Primarily because he _doesn’t_ have a study group. This is a mystery, and Jeff Winger -- and more importantly, Jeff Winger’s libido -- has no interest in or patience for mysteries.

Well, _shit_. 

“... is here,” he concludes, dully.

It’s _really_ unfair that people are making him work at community college.

 

*

 

As he watches the character dynamics beginning to click into place around him, Abed reflects that it’s not quite firing how he expected it. But it’s still the pilot stage, early days yet, and there’s plenty of time to play around with the formula. But he’s put together a winning cast, if he says so himself, and there’s definitely a lot of potential there. 

Who knows? Maybe even six seasons and a movie. 


End file.
